


One Golden Glance (it's a kind of magic)

by Chrononautical



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demon Summoning, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Heroic!Aziraphale, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Rescue Missions, Sauntering Disaster! Crowley, but not really, idiot plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 15:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19793878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: Crowley is caught in a summoning circle. Aziraphale comes to rescue him.





	One Golden Glance (it's a kind of magic)

**Author's Note:**

> I am loving all of the fics where someone gets captured by a summoner. (Do Neil Gaiman readers??? have some sort of context??? for this trope??? like a prelude??? or something???) Please consider this my contribution to the collection.

Driving the angel home after a dinner out was a special kind of pleasure for Crowley. Engaging conversation soon gave way to complaints about the road once Crowley was behind the wheel. Far from minding, Crowley enjoyed Aziraphale’s special brand of sarcasm. He even swerved toward pedestrians occasionally to elicit an emphatic, “Oh dear Lord.” An appreciative audience for his personal brand of wickedness was always welcome. 

On this particular night, however, the demon could feel a headache building at the base of his spine. He wondered if there had been one too many invocations of the name of God from his dinner companion. Then, he recognized the sensation. Slamming on the breaks, he veered off to the side of the road. Aziraphale would never forgive him for an accidental discorporation. 

“Don’t—drive—my—car,” he managed to say before evaporating in a swirl of brimstone.1

He reappeared in what looked like a bad movie set. Oh, someone had clearly researched their runes for the pentagram and the summoning circle, but the morons drew the thing in chalk. A respectable number of candles lined the room, littering every surface from the sad little herb box in the window to the well stocked bar separating the kitchen from the living room. Each of the five young summoners held a candle as well, but Crowley could tell they weren’t blessed. They weren’t even beeswax, just scented paraffin from the local shops.2

“Holy shit!” A boy with dark skin and six piercings in each ear dropped his candle. It went out, but the wax didn’t splash quite far enough to touch the chalk circle. 

That didn’t matter. Crowley already knew everything he needed to know to get out of this little prison. 

“We did it,” whispered a pale, thin girl. 

The ringleader stepped forward, her kool-aid colored hair shining in the candlelight. “Lo, demon of hell: speak to us. I command you!” 

“Yesss?” Crowley hissed, sticking his tongue out at her. The boy to her right—who clearly didn’t dare step backward—swallowed hard. His hands were shaking. A drop of wax from his tapered candle splashed on the chalk. It wasn’t quite enough to break the circle, but Crowley was in no hurry. He had another three minutes to spare. 

“We want to make a deal,” the ringleader said. 

“No you don’t.” Crowley waved a hand at the bookshelf full of thick, boring texts with bright covers, the comfortable old sofa, and the particle board coffee table. “You’re Americans, right? University students. You’re looking for a lark. He certainly doesn’t want to make a deal for his eternal soul. He’s just trying to impress you. But now he’s got to wonder if it’s worth it. If getting into your knickers is worth all the torments of hell. If he’s feeling lucky. Well is it? Are you feeling lucky, punk?” 

A dramatically pointed finger was all it took. One more splash of candle wax and the circle was broken. Crowley sauntered forth. 

Nervy boy snatched up a cross from the coffee table. “Back in the circle, demon!” 

Lighting it on fire, Crowley grinned. The shrieking boy dropped the bit of wood on the floor, stamping out the fire as the cross splintered and broke in half. “You need actual faith for that to work, kid. It’s all about choices and intent. Chalk and candles will only burn your house down. Draw the circle with your own blood or don’t bother. Hope you have renter’s insurance!”3

Before Crowley could do anything further, the pale girl was in his face. 

“I want to make a deal.” She was a bird-boned little thing. A strong breeze could snap her in half. But her eyes were bright and steady. Crowley could feel certainty of purpose radiating like a steady beacon. 

“What, you want me to make sure you pass geography or something?”

“I want to live.” 

Crowley lifted his sunglasses to get a proper look at her. She didn’t flinch. Malignancy infested every bone in her body, creeping through her blood to infect her organs and attack her heart. What did she have to fear from yellow eyes? 

“Cancer.” 

“Yes.” 

Crowley looked away. Wandered over to inspect the bookshelf near the window. “You’re what—twelve years old?” 

“I’m nineteen.” 

“Oh, nineteen! Forgive me, Methuselah. Nineteen years, that’s plenty of time. And how well you’ve been spending it. Body pumped full of chemicals. Herb garden that is _wilting_.”

The plants in the window, able to sense their imminent danger, immediately perked up. Drooping basil became lush and full. Lackluster rosemary filled the room with a scent that rivaled the burning candles. The mint, which hadn’t been slacking quite as much as the rest, grew three inches and unfurled several new leaves. 

“Listen kids, I was just going to start a few fires and go. You gotta understand. Summoning demons is dangerous. Really, really dangerous. Summon a demon and you’ll have your flesh stripped from your bones by maggots4 or flies hatching inside your brain pan.5 We’re not genies. We don’t grant wishes. It’s just treachery and torture with demons. Nothing else.” 

The girl just stood there, looking at Crowley. 

“Fine,” he said, putting down a book and sauntering back across the room. “Fine.” 

She didn’t move, not even when he leaned down into her personal space.

“Cancer,” he hissed, his tongue close enough to her face to taste the poisons, “Can **_FUCK. RIGHT. OFF._** ”

The girl didn’t flinch. Her cancer, on the other hand, knew what was good for it and fucked off. For good measure, Crowley cursed all the drugs out of the kid’s system. They had to be making her feel like shit. 

She moved then, alright. Looking down at her hands, she flexed them, flushing pink and grinning like Aziraphale did whenever Crowley accidentally said something nice. 

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley flipped down his sunglasses. “Seriously, don’t ever say anything about this to anyone. Ever. I’ll burn you lot to cinders if you even think about summoning me again. Curse your families for a thousand years. This was a one time deal. I’m letting you off with a warning.” 

“And my soul?” pressed Cancer girl. “I owe you my soul, right? Is there, like, a time limit? I get ten years to live or something?” 

“What do I want with a human soul?” Crowley scowled. Meandering over to the bar he inspected the bottles. For uni kids, they had some pretty top shelf rum. Probably went to Barbados or Haiti on break to volunteer for three hours and spend the rest of the week lounging on the beach feeling virtuous. “Go to hell if you want, but you won’t find me there. Mind, h—the other place is no better. It’s all celestial choirs and you can’t get a bloody drink to save your life. Take my advice, kid: stay on earth as long as you can. Earth is brilliant.” 

“So what do I owe you?”

“Huh?”

“Demons aren’t genies, right? I have to give you something.” 

The other three kids6 were all clustered together behind the ringleader, watching, waiting, and deciding whether or not to run. Cancer girl was still just looking at Crowley with those steady brown eyes. Crowley eyed the mint thoughtfully. 

“Someone in this house thinks they know how to make a mojito.” 

She had the audacity to laugh. “I bar tend for my friends sometimes, since I can’t drink.” 

“Well, you can drink now if you want, but bar tend first.” 

Muddling the mint with the lime, rimming the glass, and adding just the right amount of ice, the kid proved pretty quickly that she did, in fact, know how to make a mojito. 

“What’s your name, anyway?” Crowley certainly could keep calling her cancer kid. He mostly didn’t bother learning the names of individual humans, but he respected someone who could mix a proper drink. 

“Eve,” she said. 

“Great name!” Crowley absolutely had to smile at that. “Oh, great name! What are the odds? I met her once, you know. Eve. Your mum. Well, your mum’s mum’s mum however many mums ago.” 

“Really?” It had been a while since the ringleader spoke up, but Crowley approved of questions. 

“Absolutely.” He sprawled on the sofa, drink in hand. “I still don’t see what was so bad about the whole thing. It was only an apple. Anyway, knowing the difference between good and evil is what all of this is predicated on. Couldn’t have a society, not knowing the difference between good and evil. Couldn’t have laws. ‘Course those are made to be broken.” 

“Are they?” The ringleader poured herself a vodka gimlet and sat down in an armchair. 

“Philosophy student?” Crowley asked. 

She smiled. “Political science.”

“Well, in that case.” Crowley settled in. 7

Six mojitos later, one of the boys was pressing Crowley about Oscar Wilde. “But if you knew Shakespeare, you must have—”

“Nope. Nope. You’d have to ask Asirf—Aziraph—a friend of mine. Slept through that one. Wasn’t jealous, just sleepy. I like sleeping. And people can gavotte with whoever they like at whatever clubs they like. I never cared, anyway. Sleep is brilliant.”

“You slept through—Oscar Wilde?” 

“Slept through the nineteenth century,” Crowley said. “The angel was—I mean, wasn’t—I mean, it was a crap century. Didn’t even have cars yet, not really. Cars are brilliant.” 

“We haven’t even touched on machinery,” the boy with the piercings said. “From your perspective, what was the greatest invention in all of human history?”

“Cars.” Nodding, Crowley accepted another drink from Eve. “I said, didn’t I? Cars are brilliant. Zipping along the road like anything. Just zipping along. Used to be, used to be, you had to walk everywhere. Or fly. Or go to hell and then pop back up where you wanted to be. That was real bollocks. Having to go down there just to get to Glasgow or wherever. Not even somewhere far! But it took ages before cars. Ages and ages! Glasgow! Bet you anything cars are the best. Ask anyone. Dollars to—what’s the thing?”

“The thing?” 

“The american thing. You’re Americans, you should know.”

“Dollars are our currency, yes,” said the future politician with the hair, “but about travel before the invention of the car—” 

“No, come on. C’mon. You’re Americans. You gotta know this. The thing. Dollars and the thing. What’s the thing?” 

One wall of the house crumbled into rubble as a figure descended from the heavens framed in holy light. In his hand, a flaming sword raged with the righteous fury of every war ever suffered by humanity. From his back stretched wings as pure as the shriven souls of the newly baptized dead. He was wearing a tartan bow tie.8

Crowley smiled up at him lazily. “Angel, you’ll know. What’s the american thing? You bet it against dollars.” 

“Doughnuts, my dear,” Aziraphale said, letting his feet come gently to rest on the earth. 

“Yesss! Doughnuts!” Something acrid tickled the tip of Crowley’s tongue. He turned to glare at the nervous boy. “Did you just piss? Don’t you have a toilet? I thought everyone had toilets these days. They’re the best—well, they’re—well, right up there with cars, at least. Angel knows. He was there. Tell them. Tell them that toilets are almost as good as cars, what with everything not smelling like piss anymore.” 

The kids were all staring at Aziraphale, who had a mild air of disappointment hanging over him as the holy light faded away. “Indoor plumbing, running water, and sanitation have saved more human lives than any other factor in the entire course of civilization. You remember the difference made by the aqueducts in Rome. And what about that dreadful cholera outbreak in Broad Street?”

“Nah. Slept through that one.” 

“Well, it was terrible. Simply awful. Take it from me, good clean water is far more important than being able to go down the road a little faster while burning up all the petroleum and poisoning the atmosphere. Horses were a perfectly fine mode of transportation. There was never any need for all of these engines smoking up the place.” 

“Horses were _shit_.”

“Oh, yes. They never did like you much, did they my dear? Let’s leave the topic alone for now, then. As you’re drunk.” There seemed to be something faintly accusatory about the way Aziraphale said drunk. As though drunk was not a perfectly reasonable thing to be. 

“It’s a mojito.” Crowley found his straw with his tongue. It took him a minute. Then he noticed what Aziraphale was holding. “Been a while since I saw that. Not since the apoc—the apocally—the do at the airfield.” 

“Yes, well. I thought I might need it against whatever malevolent forces were holding you captive. I didn’t expect to find you drinking with Americans!” 

“Are you in a snit?”

“I am not in a snit!” Aziraphale stamped his foot.9 “I just think you might have had the common decency to call and let me know you weren’t being murdered by whatever foul sorcerer conjured you. I didn’t like to go to all the trouble of fetching this, you know. I’m soft. I shouldn’t need to have a sword.”

Sipping his mojito, Crowley edged Eve between him and the angry angel with one leg. Stumbling, she went. “Eve has cancer.”

“Oh!” Mood broken, Aziraphale stuffed his no longer flaming sword under one arm. “Poor girl. And you’re so young. I’m sure it’s no trouble at all for me to just—” The angel paused, then turned to glare at Crowley. “She does _not_ have cancer. I can’t believe you’d try to manipulate my finer feelings with such an obvious lie.” 

“I cured her.” Crowley waved his drink. “We’re celebrating.” 

“You still might have called,” Aziraphale said, but Crowley could tell he was weakening. 

“Would you like a mojito?” Eve’s voice was a whisper, and she seemed much more frightened of Aziraphale than she’d ever been of Crowley. Still, she had the instincts of a true temptress, that one. Crowley liked her.

The angel cracked. “Thank you, my dear, it’s very kind of you to offer. I can see I have some catching up to do.” He frowned at Crowley. Actually frowned, not pouted. 

At once, the demon sat up, sloshing his drink on the floor and whipping off his glasses. “Should I sober up?”

“No, no, we might as well stay.” Aziraphale heaved a put upon sigh. “You’ve been corrupting these youths foul serpent, and I really ought to correct your dark influences. Not too heavy on the soda water, my dear. It really should just introduce a frisson of effervescence for effect.” 

“Light on the ice, too?” Eve asked, sounding a bit more like herself. “I’ve been pouring for Mister Crowley all night.” 

“Precisely, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled benevolently. “Now, what scurrilous lies has mean old Mister Crowley been telling you all to entertain himself? It is my duty to thwart him at every turn, and I take that very seriously. You probably don’t even realize that I’m the nice one.” 

“I think he said you knew Oscar Wilde?” Piercings sounded like he might faint. 

“Oh, Oscar? Yes! Lovely man,” Aziraphale said innocently. “We got on famously. I don’t know why Crowley doesn’t like him. He’s usually such a fan of the theater.” 

Crowley clicked his teeth.10

“You’re an angel,” said Politics. “And he’s a demon.”

“Obviously,” Crowley said, still a bit moody about people bringing up terrible playwrights that probably weren’t nearly as handsome or witty as everyone claimed. 

“But the two of you are—”

“Well, we were Adversaries for a very long time. You know, Crowley working his wiles on the unsuspecting populace, me thwarting away at every opportunity.” 

“Oh my god, _they were Adversaries_ ,” Piercings murmured to the fifth human who had no distinguishing personality of any kind.11

The fifth human blinked at him blandly. 

“Now, of course, we’re married,” said Aziraphale.

“Our house was blown up by an angel looking for his husband,” said the boy with the urine stain down his trousers. He sounded pretty out of it. 

“Worth it.” Eve’s eyes were shining, and she handed Crowley another drink. 

Crowley looked at the crumbled wall. He could see an awful lot of lawn, street, and neighborhood for someone technically sitting inside of a house. A brick dropped from the upper bit and a little plaster rained down after. “I can fix that,” he said, finding his straw with his tongue. 

“Oh, allow me.” Aziraphale beat him to the snap. Instantaneously, the wall built itself up, expanding into a cozy reading nook with a big picture window, lovely tartan curtains, and a cozy armchair: none of which had been there before. For completeness, the chalk circles on the floor evaporated and the candles everywhere arranged themselves into fire-safe candle-holders. “My mess, my clean up.” 

“We summoned a demon to cure Eve’s cancer, and his angel husband gave us a chair,” said Nerves. His hands were shaking and noticeably empty. 

“I think he needs another drink,” Crowley told Eve helpfully. 

Aziraphale frowned. “We may be teaching the wrong lesson here, dearest.”

“I’m not teaching.” Crowley sipped his drink. “I’m not some kind of _teacher_. We’re just talking. They’re the ones who started asking about cars and things. Cars are brilliant.” 

“Not what I meant, my love.” Aziraphale took a small sip of his mojito, then turned to Eve with surprised appreciation. “Well, that is delightful! You have a real talent, young lady.” 

“Told you,” said Crowly. 

Holding up a serious hand to forestall argument made Aziraphale look rather a lot like a bookseller declining a third slice of cake and nothing at all like a commanding principality. “I’m sorry, but I simply must say that you have all been very foolish. If you are going to summon a demon, you should really draw the circle with sacrificial blood and consecrated earth. From the grave of a saint, for preference. You children haven’t even got any holy water in the house!” 

“Do it that way if you want to kill the demon!” Crowley hoped that his face truly conveyed what a deep affront this suggestion was.12

“My dear, can you think of a single demon that it would be safe to leave alive after forcing them to suffer the indignity of a summoning?” 

“Well,” said Crowley. “Well, there’s—well—me, for one!” 

“That rather proves my point, dearest.” 

“We won’t do it again,” said Nerves. “Ever. We swear.” 

Aziraphale’s grin lit up the room. “That’s alright then. Now, what did you want to know about Oscar?”

“No one wants to talk about your sordid, unangelic flirtation with Oscar Wilde,” grumbled Crowley. 

“I want to talk about your _flirtation with Oscar Wilde_ ,” Piercings said, betraying Crowley as deftly and completely as any demon ever could. 

“We met in the springtime, of course,” Aziraphale began.

“This is punishment.” Crowley was a demon. He knew from punishment. “You’re punishing me.”

“Am I?” asked Aziraphale.13 And he proceeded to talk about long dead literary figures that no one really liked for at least three hours. The humans, who should have sided with Crowley after everything he’d done not killing them, listened to him with rapt fascination like treacherous little traitors. 

Sulking, Crowley drank their booze and didn’t even laugh at most of Aziraphale’s jokes. He was the mean one, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Aziraphale drove Crowley’s car exactly once. In 1987, during a fit of what can only be called madness, the demon decided that a being older than the world itself ought to know how to drive. Somehow, despite going exactly five miles an hour, Aziraphale managed to crash into a telephone pole while Crowley screamed at him to turn the damn wheel. The Bentley deserved better. Back
> 
> 2\. Jasmine, though. Could be worse. Back
> 
> 3\. Demons didn’t invent the idea of insurance, but Crowley did influence the development of certain clauses. He was fairly sure that five children wouldn’t be recouping their losses from a fire started by candles they lit themselves. It hardly qualified as an act of _God_ , after all. Back
> 
> 4\. Hastur Back
> 
> 5\. Beelzebub Back
> 
> 6\. The boy with piercings, the boy with nerves, and the person Crowley didn’t really notice. Back
> 
> 7\. Technically, this made her a future politician and a prime target for Temptation. In actuality, Crowley’s drink was just really very good. Back
> 
> 8\. Really. Back
> 
> 9\. He was, quite obviously, in a snit. Back
> 
> 10\. Aziraphale knew _exactly_ why Crowley didn’t like Oscar Wilde, and he always had. Back
> 
> 11\. It would be more accurate to say that this human had no distinguishing features which drew Crowley’s attention. While they were absolutely the sort of friend to spend three hundred dollars on candles comforting a sick housemate, when an actual demon showed up they soon discovered that they were also the sort of friend who liked to stay alive. Quickly realizing that their best chance of survival was not attracting attention, they worked very hard to go absolutely unnoticed. Later in life, as a tenured professor, they would write an academic book about game theory which Aziraphale would enjoy very much, never once realizing that he’d met the author. Back
> 
> 12\. It might have, if he’d sat up at all or lifted his sunglasses. Back
> 
> 13\. He was. Back


End file.
